


the important things to hold onto

by AggressivelyBisexual



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Reunions, hand holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 06:48:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13676454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AggressivelyBisexual/pseuds/AggressivelyBisexual
Summary: A flash flood separates Daryl from Jesus, and the raging storm gives him too much time to think alone.





	the important things to hold onto

**Author's Note:**

  * For [drcloyd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drcloyd/gifts).



> My valentine's prompts were holding hands, secret gift, and fire. I tried to bring them all together, and I hope you like it ♡ I was so so happy to get you as my recipient to write for.
> 
> Happy Valentine's Day ♡

“Told you it was gonna rain today,” Daryl said, with a small spattering of raindrops on the windshield punctuating his statement.

Jesus just shook his head and pointedly ignored Daryl, instead turning up the volume of the obscure classic rock tape they had found already in the player. A few weeks before, they had discovered this old commercial flatbed truck, one of the smaller ones with wooden siding around the back and a decently working engine. They thought it would be perfect to carry the types of large materials the Hilltop wanted to use for expansions. When Jesus asked if Daryl would accompany him on his first run with the new truck, Daryl agreed without feeling the need to find out where they were going, or why.

"A Walmart, seriously?" Daryl asked, unimpressed, "Ain’t no way there's anything good left.”

"We're not actually going inside, it has one of those big garden centers," Jesus said.

He parked the truck close in front of what looked like an oversized greenhouse made of more metal than glass, off to the side from the main entrance. Daryl hopped out of the cab and took stock of the dilapidated cars scattered around the barren parking lot, a couple of smashed in corpses around the front sliding doors, and the chain that hung from the Garden Center gates with its unlocked deadbolt scraping the ground. Daryl had long stopped caring about runs, or the purpose behind each one. He only pretended to when Jesus asked him to join. Daryl might have followed Jesus anywhere, distantly wanting to without allowing it to be acknowledged, forcing himself to wait until given an excuse to. But, a failed Walmart trip was a bit closer and more doable than to the ends of the earth.

"We should probably make sure those are secure,” Daryl said, pointing to the front, “Don't wanna know what’s in there.”

They walked up to the main sliding doors, which were closed and locked, but still too easy to break. Jesus held his hand up to the glass to peer inside the dark store.

"I don't see anything, but that doesn't mean they're not there," he said, looking off to the side and then pointed to the lines of shopping carts. "Let's push those in front of here, and even if they don't hold, we can hear if they're moved."

"Good idea," Daryl mumbled, walking over to the far end.

"I know, I'm full of them," Jesus said with a smirk, making Daryl roll his eyes.

Together they slowly moved the mass of carts in front of the doors, not realizing how heavy they would be when all connected, and found themselves quickly out of breath.

"This is why you should quit smoking," Jesus said, trying and failing to silence his own heavy breathing.

"Fuck you," Daryl said, pretending he wasn’t panting that much harder.

Jesus just laughed and pulled out his gun as they walked back to the outer garden building. Daryl raised his crossbow and slowly entered first, Jesus behind him with his gun up and pointed in the opposite direction, flanking each other as they checked the dim, cavernous room. Away towards the back, beyond where they could see, was the familiar sound of snarling and shuffling.

"Sounds like one, maybe two back there," Daryl muttered.

"The entrance to the main store might be open, we have to check that first," Jesus said quietly.

He led the way to the side of the room that stood adjacent to the larger store, Daryl following silently behind him. They found the doors shut and locked, but Daryl shook the them harder just to test it.

"I don't know how this’ll hold if there’s lots in there," he said.

Jesus looked around at the stacks of lumber, spools of wiring, heavy sacks of fertilizer, and sighed, "Yeah, staying quiet might be hard."

"More heavy shit in front of it?" Daryl asked.

Jesus smiled, "You mean my brilliant plan?”

“Shut up,” Daryl groaned and pushed him away, "You wanna go get that walker in the back and I'll do this?"

"Sure," Jesus said, holstering his gun to pull out a knife, and smirked widely back at him, “Make sure not to push yourself too hard.”

He quickly disappeared before Daryl had time to react. Shaking his head to push away the inclination to yell at Jesus across the quiet room, Daryl looked at the tall shelves on either side of the doors. Each unit had large, heavy steel frames that held thick boards of wooden shelves. Daryl planted his feet, and pulled one of them as hard as he could to unbalance it. He started to huff again with the effort, almost losing his footing when it finally started to tip sideways. The stack of shelves hit the ground with a resounding crash, a ringing echo bouncing around the quiet room.  

Jesus ran back to him, knife now dirty with blood and brains held up and alarmed.

After a moment of deafening silence, a chorus of banging hands and rasping groans hit the door behind the fallen shelves.

"Well," Jesus said, raising his eyebrows, "Guess it holds."

Daryl's lips twitched up when he looked at Jesus, "You check the rest of this place?" he asked.

"Yeah, there was just the two in the back," Jesus said.

Daryl nodded, slowly walking around and feeling slightly overwhelmed.

"So," Daryl paused, "What are we hear for?"

Jesus sighed next to him, "I didn't really think we’d find this much."

Daryl just looked at him flatly, one brow raised.

"I don't know," Jesus shrugged, "We need stuff to make space for growing more crops. Garden centers have growing stuff.”

"You didn't get a list from Maggie or anything?" Daryl asked.

"I didn't even know if anything would be here."

Throwing his crossbow over his shoulder, Daryl said, "We gotta decide what's most important, and then bring the truck back another day."

The two split up to take stock of everything. The glass ceiling above them gradually darkened as storm clouds piled closer, the rain drops falling harder and louder. Daryl felt a flash of fear that the bullets of water pelting the glass would cover Jesus’ voice if he had to yell for him.

Daryl found himself in the greenhouse area, completely bewildered by everything in front of him. But front and center was a display of how-to books with an entire shelf devoted to "Greenhouses for Dummies," and Daryl put one in his pack. He was about to walk away when another book caught his attention, covered in bright brushstroked plants and detailing information on how to grow certain types of flowers in a greenhouse. Attached to the back of the book was a box of various flower seeds, tiny little pictures on the outside that showed what each would look like. Daryl specifically took note of the blue, green, and white hued ones and shoved it in to the bottom.

 

* * *

 

Daryl and Jesus eventually decided what was most important and took their time to load it all onto the truck. The unrepentant rain had filled the parking lot with small ponds in the short time they were inside, along with too much water puddled in the back bed. They struggled to hold heavy things without slipping, even when working together.

The sky suddenly rolled with thunder and lightning flashed directly above them. The pouring rain fell in sheets, hammering the metal of the truck and immediately soaked through their already saturated jackets.

Daryl tried to shout above the thunder, "We gotta go."

They ran back into store, threw their backpacks on, and tried to grab anything else they could carry. As they're securing the back of the truck, a dozen walkers fell through the trees closest to them, sliding down the muddy embankment.

"Shit, Daryl," Jesus yelled, hand slipping off Daryl's wet shoulder when he tried to turn the other man around.

Another crash of thunder drowned out Daryl's attempt to yell back at Jesus, who was already jumping into the driver's seat. Daryl stayed posted against the side of the truck, crossbow held up and firing an arrow at an uncomfortably close walker. The engine sputtered and died. Jesus kept trying, the engine turning and sputtering, turning and never starting. Daryl shot another arrow into a rotting skull, and a feeling of dread crashed into him with the thunder in his ears.

“Fuck,” Jesus cried, “It won’t start.”

A pair of walkers stumbled right into Daryl’s space, and he swung his crossbow around to club their heads in. When Jesus jumped out of the cab, he grabbed the edge of wooden plank sticking out from the truck and swung himself up onto the top of the siding, then leaping onto the roof with a nimble crouch.

“Come on,” Jesus yelled down.

“You know I can’t do that shit!”

Jesus pulled his gun out and fired into the walkers closing in on Daryl. One of them sprayed dead, gray pieces brain into his face, and Daryl growled loudly up at him.

“Sorry,” Jesus shouted, silenced under more thunder.

When Daryl turned to check on him, his stomach dropped at the movement behind them.

“Jesus,” his voice cracks through his shout, “There’s more.”

Underneath the roaring storm, neither had heard the shattering of glass doors or the screeching of shopping carts that had only slightly slowed down the crowd of walkers that came from the store. The closest corpse slammed into the front of the truck, reaching up at Jesus, while others were almost near enough to grab at Daryl. Jesus jumped down and took Daryl’s hand, close to yanking his arm out when he pulled Daryl from the swarm. They took off running up the road and tried to squint their way through the rainwater falling in their eyes, needing to wipe their hair back every couple of seconds. The rain bogged down their boots and they struggled to sprint with pools in their socks.

The farther they went, the water trickling down the street seemed to pick up more and more debris, sticks and gravel crunched under their feet.

“This is really bad,” Jesus yelled.

Daryl pointed up at one side of the woods that flanked the road, and tried to be heard above the roaring around them, “Let’s get off the street.”

Jesus turned and jumped down into the ditch running alongside the shoulder, and then paused, looking down at his feet. There was a small run of water that suddenly deepened to push even more into his waterlogged boots. The general roaring of the storm rose distinctly from one direction, coming down directly toward them.

“Move Paul, run,” Daryl shouted as loudly as he could.

Paul tripped up into the trees as an entire flood washed down the ditch between them, sweeping through the spot where he was just standing. He stared down at Daryl with wide eyes, stepping further back from the river that kept growing between them.

“You need to go,” Paul yelled, his terrified voice ripped out of his throat, “It’s going to keep coming.”

Daryl’s feet felt almost rooted to the street that threatened to slide out beneath him, breath caught in his throat. He didn’t want to leave Paul, he didn’t want to be separated, he didn’t want to think about the possibility of Paul not being there when this was over. Then, a sudden surge of water rose to his calves, the unexpected pressure almost knocked him over and forced him stumble back to the opposite edge of the road.

“Daryl,” Paul’s voice cracked, barely audible as they both kept walking backwards, only enough to keep out of the rising water.

Daryl yelled, “Go east, when this all stops.”

He stayed for a moment to watch Paul turn around and run, almost falling when the flood pushed higher and harder.

Then, Daryl walked and walked, his mind repeatedly mapping where Paul might have gone, and numbly ignored the feeling that he had done this before, and that he had never found her.

He finally stopped to take a moment under the cover of a rock outcropping, and opened his backpack to get his water bottle. The canvas was completely soaked through, everything in it drenched with rainwater. Daryl pulled out the two books that he had shoved in there at the garden center. The pages fell out of the binding with how saturated they were. The book of flowers was indistinguishable under all of the bright ink that had run together and created a rainbow wash that stained his fingers. He stared at the watercolored tips of his nails, furious at the storm, furious at their ruined run, furious at being separated from Paul the way they were.

With a growl, he threw the book as hard as he could against the nearest tree. It hit the muddy ground with a pathetic plop, and the box of seeds inside of it tumbled out.

Daryl reached down and picked up the box, equally soaked through as everything else, the cardboard started to disintegrate in his hands. He wasn’t sure if the seeds were even still usable, not sure if it was possible for them to be damaged from too much water. But, he couldn’t bear to leave them there, couldn’t bear going home with absolutely nothing, and not having something for Paul even if it was something that didn’t work. Daryl owed Paul the proof of everything that he could never say, that he hadn’t yet found the words for.

 

* * *

 

When Daryl first showed up at Hilltop, he noticed there were green flowers on Glenn and Abraham’s graves—noticed from a distance, out of the corner of his eyes, never able to go near the wooden crosses. He never cared enough to give them second thought. Throughout the war, every time another grave was dug for friends or neighbors, green or white flowers would show up on top of them. They weren’t always the same blossoms, but every mound of too-fresh dirt were given one.  

Daryl was on watch the first time he saw Jesus walk out of the woods with an armful of wildflowers in shades of green and white. From his perch up high where he felt hidden and unnoticed, where he felt most comfortable, he watched Jesus walk among the graves that were dug outside the walls, and place flowers on the newer crosses that hadn’t yet had any. Daryl remembered only feeling derision at first, wondering _why_. He didn’t see what the point was, they are dead, and soon all of them might be as well.

The next time Daryl walked out of the gates with his crossbow resting on the back of his shoulder, Jesus ran out the gates behind him and quietly stepped into place with Daryl. He watched him out of the corner of his eye, but Jesus never said anything, so Daryl didn’t see the point in doing so either. It wasn’t until they were further into the woods, when Daryl slowed down and began to study the earth around them, that Jesus peeled off and walked in the opposite direction, still without a word. Daryl watched him go, distantly feeling like he should have had questions, but not finding the energy to try asking them. That night as he walked back to the gates, frustrated with only having a string of squirrels over his shoulders, he ignored the graves and the new flowers resting on them, past caring about the world around him.

The second time Jesus followed him out of Hilltop’s walls, Daryl turned fully to look at him.

“Why are you following me?” he asked.

“I’m not,” Jesus replied, “Not really. Seeing you leave reminds me that there’s something I need to do, too.”

Daryl just looked at him narrowly, meeting clear sky eyes that rose and fell like the sea, eyes that he tried not to catch very often.

They stood in silence for a moment, Daryl not wanting to ask more and Jesus not trying to offer anything more. He waited until Daryl shrugged with a sigh and walked with him again into the woods. And just like last time, he took off in the opposite direction.

The third time this happened, Daryl let Jesus walk away, waited about five minutes, and quietly tracked the other man’s footsteps. He still didn’t want to ask, but his curiosity had been piqued enough that he just wanted to see what Jesus was up to. It was easy enough to follow him, for as light as Jesus was on his feet, he didn’t know how to cover his tracks. Daryl moved slowly, not wanting to catch up to him too quickly and be discovered. He stopped at the top of a small hill, able to see Jesus farther down and watched as he picked weeds with white blossoms on them. Jesus gently pocketed them and went on his way, disappearing from view.

When Daryl walked out of the woods—early and empty handed, too distracted to focus on hunting—he stopped in front of the row of graves that lined the outer wall. On some of the small crosses were the white blossoms that Jesus picked. Even knowing they weren’t the same, all Daryl could see were cherokee roses dancing in his hazy vision. Cherokee roses on the same wooden crosses that he had made at the prison, cherokee roses for every person he failed to save, a tidal wave of flower petals weighing him down until he couldn’t stand any longer.

“Hey,” an unexpected voice rang through the fog in his head, making him jump and almost throw an elbow in Jesus’ face.

Daryl tried to blink past the blurriness swimming in his eyes, he finally focused on Jesus’ furrowed brows and the concerned squint in his face. Jesus’ hand twitched up, as if he wanted to reach out to Daryl, who was already shying away. They stared at each other in silence, the unasked question staying quiet behind Jesus’ steady gaze and lips pressed tightly together, the smallest twist of a sad smile.

“Why the flowers?” Daryl finally found his voice behind cracked lips and the weight in his throat.

Jesus looked away for a long moment, eyes running over every grave and each flower on top of them, before he replied, “I don’t want to forget those that helped us fight for this new world without getting the chance to see the life that will come after it. I don’t want to forget them.”

He turned to meet Daryl’s eyes again, “Everyone deserves to be remembered,” he said quietly.

Daryl looked away, face hidden behind his ratty hair. Jesus stepped closer and reached out, the barest hint of his fingertips touching the back of Daryl’s hand.

“We do that by living for them,” he murmured.

Staring down at Paul’s touch on his hand, Daryl wanted to brush it off and walk away, but he didn’t.

 

* * *

 

Daryl kept going, backpack heavy with rainwater and the weight of losing something that he felt was important for him to give Paul. He would have given Paul everything, every part of himself, every piece of what’s left of his soul, and he wasn’t sure if Paul knew that. Daryl wanted to show Paul, wanted to give his hands to hold, his fingers to touch, his feet to follow, his heart to understand. And still, the rain continued to pour. He walked east and kept walking, soaked to the bone and shivering as he kept wiping his dripping bangs out of his eyes, looking for any signs of Paul. Daryl thanked the skies for not sending anymore flash floods his way, and then told the skies to fuck off, because thunderstorm couldn’t be the thing to separate them, to stop them from finding each other again.

Daryl finally reached the crest of a hill and saw a small cabin a short distance away. The windows were dimly lit with a warm light, and Daryl almost tumbled down the side of the hill in his haste to get there. As he got closer, he could see the low light in the cabin flickering gently with oranges and yellows. Just as he was about to jump onto the porch, he hesitated for a second, stopping in case there was a stranger waiting for him instead of Paul. But, _it has to be him_ , Daryl begged.

Pulling his crossbow around and up to eye level, Daryl slowly turned the doorknob, finding it unlocked. Barely opening the door, before he could even get a good look of the inside, a body slammed into him and almost knocked him back off the porch. Daryl dropped everything immediately as arms wound around his waist and clutched him tightly.

“Oh my god,” Paul breathed into the space between his neck and shoulder where he had buried his face, “I was so scared.”

Daryl wrapped his arms around Paul, bringing him in and hugging him even closer. He had no words to give Paul, and instead rubbed a hand up to hold the back of his head. Daryl noticed that Paul’s hair was only slightly damp, mostly dry and frizzing out in waves. Paul moved back and took Daryl’s hand to pull him inside, locking the door behind them. Not letting go for even a second, he tugged Daryl to sit down on the rug in front of a burning fireplace and pulled a blessedly dry blanket around his shoulders.

“Take off your shoes,” Paul said, as he’s already removing one of Daryl’s for him.

Daryl took his wet socks off as well and stretched his stiff, inflamed feet as close to the fire as possible. Paul’s own bare feet knocked into his as he shifted even tighter against Daryl’s side, their clutched hands resting on the tops of their thighs. After making sure the blanket wrapped securely around them, Paul turned his face and pressed his forehead to the ball of Daryl’s shoulder, sighing into his slowly warming skin. Daryl dropped his face into Paul’s hair and just breathed, trembling off the last of his fears that they would never find each other.

“You think we’ll be able to go back and get everything?” Daryl finally asked after a stretch of silence.

“I honestly don’t care,” Paul said.

He pulled back just enough to meet Daryl’s eyes, faces close, sharing the warmth of quiet breaths between them, and continued, “I just care that you’re here.”

“Me too,” Daryl rasped, pressing his forehead against the other’s.

Paul looked down at their hands, fingers still intertwined, and ran his thumb over one of Daryl’s still brightly stained fingernails.

“Where did this come from?”

Daryl took a deep breath, hesitatingly said, “I got something for you, but the rain…”

He reached into his backpack, instead of finishing his sentence, and pulled out the small cardboard box that still held together by sheer will and luck. The words were indistinguishable, but despite all of the watercolored ink that ran together, the shapes of various flowers still stood out. When Paul took the box, the pouches of flower seeds fell out, still clumped together in a puddle of water. He looked up at Daryl, a confused look under his furrowed brows.

“They, um,” Daryl cleared his stuck throat, “There was books on building greenhouses, and one of them was for flowers in greenhouses. I just thought, you know, easier, different.”

Daryl shrugged uncomfortably, gaze dancing between Paul’s widening eyes and the pouches that he then placed on the floor, “But, I don’t know, maybe they’re ruined,” Daryl said.

With the free hand that Paul wasn’t using to squeeze Daryl’s even tighter, he reached up and cradled the side of Daryl’s face. He moved the tiniest bit closer, so achingly slowly that Daryl almost snapped, before Paul’s lips touched his.

It’s a soft press of lips, the smallest taste of a kiss that was over before it started. Daryl’s frozen state thawed under Paul’s hands and he returned the kiss over and over, closer and deeper and warmer.  

Daryl’s hands moved up to cradle his face, “Never losing you again, Paul.”

  
  
  



End file.
